


someone else to save

by tamsinb



Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [3]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: (as important as ever), Agender Betsy Trombone, Character Study, Other, Swearing, background totluis, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamsinb/pseuds/tamsinb
Summary: “Your pitching’s looking good, Mike,” they said, for a lack of anything else to say.“...Really?”“Well, no. But whatever, who cares about that.”“Geez, I dunno Bets, the fans? The press? The gods?”“You haven’t named a single person who matters.”“Guess not.”In which Betsy Trombone comes clean.
Relationships: Mike Townsend & Betsy Trombone, Mike Townsend/Betsy Trombone
Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092785
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	someone else to save

* * *

It was a week before the start of the tenth season of Internet League Blaseball and Betsy Trombone was sliding their headphones down around their shoulders in order to prove to themself that the rustling they’d heard from the dense foliage along the sidewalk path wasn’t just some sound in the background of their song that they’d never noticed before. The drums and yelling spilling out from the speakers sounded hollow when playing through open air. Betsy pulled back the leaves to discover a single crow trapped in the inner tangles of the bush.

"Oh shit, a whole ass bird!" they said. "Sick."

It didn’t seem injured, just stuck, and it looked at Betsy quizzically and without making a sound. To Betsy it looked resigned to its fate almost and they frowned, snatching out their switchblade.

“If you bite me you’re fucking dead,” they muttered to the bird, no threat in their voice, and they began to hack away at the furls, the bird waiting patiently until it was freed. When Betsy was satisfied it was they flipped their blade away and watched as the crow inspected itself with insistent flicks of its head before flitting its wings around, knocking aside leaf and branch before proceeding to hop up Betsy’s arm onto their shoulder.

“Hell yeah bitch, you want a ride? God this owns.” The bird cried for the first time, a subdued staccato _caw_. Its claws nestled gently into the leather of their jacket, its reflective eyes a dead match for the glossy leather, its blueblack feathers in the afternoon light a pleasing contrast to their skin’s soft brown complexion. In all? The perfect accessory. Betsy felt like the coolest motherfucker alive as they turned to continue their had-to-get-out-of-the-house-for-once-or-they’d-go-mental stroll.

Just as they began to wonder whether the art supply store would have sort of no birds policy - _surely they can’t have anything that SPECIFICALLY mentions birds so I can just call Air Blud rules_ \- a new caw caught their attention, coming from the opposite side as the bird on their shoulder. A second crow, perched on a bench, staring them down.

Betsy turned to the bird on their shoulder. “You know this guy?” Turned back to the other one. “Look, fucker, me and this one are best friends now. If you’re jealous you can piss off!”

No response. Probably couldn’t understand them since it was a bird, they figured. Betsy rolled their eyes and was about to be on their way when another crow alighted next to the other on the bench. And sounds of movement from the trees above. They risked a glance upwards and saw the movement of more shapes than they could keep track of, black and winged. Panic seized them and they began to power walk away, forcing themself not to look to either side as more and more crows began to descend alongside their motion.

A few swept out onto the path in front of them and Betsy stopped, which was all the opportunity a particularly daring crow needed to land directly on their head, sending their hands frantically scattering around the dense curls of their hair to shoo it away right as another one shoved into their back, sending them stumbling forward more out of surprise than force of impact.

Which was the point at which Betsy decided _hey actually? fuck this_ and took off in a sprint, arms flapping wildly to all sides in what could almost be read as a poor mockery of the flapping wings of the birds themselves, screaming all the while. Crow after crow moved around them, a wing against their thigh, a head bonking against their shoulder, until a stray tile on the ground caught against their boot, sending them first tripping and then falling to the ground, adding another tear into their jeans.

 _Well, if this is how it ends, I guess there are stupider ways to go. Probably._ The birds advanced, hopping over Betsy’s collapsed, sluglike form, as Betsy played dead and tried to face their inevitable death via pecking with as much dignity as they could muster.

But it never came. Instead the birds on and around them were grazing against them gently with their beaks, and Betsy realized they were checking to see if they were okay. They flipped over and the birds on their back politely hopped to the side. A circle of birds in front of them, some on their lap, the first one still clinging to their shoulder. At least 15, maybe 20 in all. And all looking intently at Betsy.

“Uhhhhh. How’s everybody doing?”

The birds looked at each other.

“Hm. Tough crowd. Do you like, want something from me?”

A few of the birds ruffled up for a moment. Betsy pondered.

“Hey, one of you hop onto my finger real quick.” They extended a finger and one of the birds obliged. It was heavy and Betsy couldn’t hold it on there for long, but it was just a proof of concept.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Wait, this is sick as hell. Can y’all like, do a sick ass storm above my head real quick?”

And the birds did so, a small but intimidating maelstrom above Betsy’s head as they stood and looked up in glee.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. This is the fucking coolest thing that ever happened to me.” The birds calmed and settled down in a gentle scatter around Betsy. They felt a bit uncomfortable under the stares of so many beady eyes waiting for them to give direction as to what to do next.

They remembered what they’d come out to do, they needed a new sketchbook before the season started up again so they’d have enough pages to pass time on the road drawing. And one crow was already going to be enough of a stretch to get in, much less an entire- flock? Flock was probably the right word.

 _Stupid no pets allowed ass corporate ass art supply store,_ thought Betsy. _Poseur ass overpriced ass fuckin… Can’t even get new pencils cause their stupid sketchpads cost so much..._

That’s when an idea struck Betsy.

“Hey. Y’all wanna steal some fancy pencils?”

Twenty squawks to the affirmative.

EMERGENCY ALERT

SEVERE MURMURATION WARNING IN THIS AREA

THIS PLAYER IS A FRIEND OF CROWS.

* * *

_"when you talk like that, it makes me real nervous_

_no, don't be inviting me to your funeral service_

_throw down your fucking chips, let's play for keeps this time..."_

_“song for a supermarket parking lot”, pat the bunny_

* * *

About a month prior, two figures stood in one of the few places in the Big Garage which actually served its stated purpose: housing automobiles. Silhouetted in headlights, one lanky, the other tiny. A voice breaks the silence, echoing through the cavernous room:

“Betsy, you have a _car?”_

They were too proud of their ride to get defensive over the incredulity in his voice. “Hell yeah I do. Got it for way cheap. Call her the Betsmobile. We’re getting burgers in _style.”_

Mike Townsend stood in front of the beaten down flatbed truck, doing something that could almost be called admiring.

“I like the. All the stickers on it.”

“Had to do something to distract from the paint job.”

“What color is it even supposed to be.”

“Couldn’t tell ya,” laughed Betsy.

“And it’s parked in the Big Garage because?”

“Cause that’s my team, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Mike paused for a moment and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “What uh. What season is it?”

And it was only then that Betsy realized that Mike probably had about a million questions he needed answered, wasn’t it just like him to avoid asking them to keep from bringing the mood down after all, and guilt started to creep up on Betsy for being so elated at their being reunited.

“Just finished the ninth. About to start the tenth.” A pause and then, more sheepishly: “Hop in the passenger seat and you can ask me whatever you want on the way. How’s that?”

Mike nodded vacantly and headed around as Betsy began the task of hauling themself up the running board into the driver’s seat.

*******

Mike asked his questions softly, barely audible over the folk punk that had started playing from the jammed-in cassette as soon as Betsy had started the car. Maybe it would’ve been polite to turn it off, given the situation, but the prospect of silence seemed far more terrifying than a small impropriety.

The easiest questions came first.

Betsy was on the Garages? “Yeah.”

How? “Feedback.”

Did they like it okay? “Bit of an improvement, honestly.”

Been there long? “Just a season.”

Mike thought for a bit, then started the next line of questions in the gap between songs.

Did it work? “Did uh. Did what work.”

Betsy should know. “Jaylen?”

A nod. “Yeah. I mean. You could say it did.”

So she was okay now. “Okay now? Yeah. I mean, probably. Well. Maybe, I dunno, not like I talk to her.” Betsy winced every time they added a new clause to their answer, it growing less and less believable each time.

Is she not here? “Nah. Swapped with me.”

She’s on the Pies? “Used to be. Thieves, now.”

Huh. “Yeah. Huh.”

The headlights fell across the front door of an all-night diner as Betsy pulled in.

They waited until Mike was done with his burger to explain it to him, which didn’t take long, he’d scarfed it down in moments and Betsy couldn’t tell if it was from hunger or just from having missed the feeling of hot food moving down his throat.

And Mike had of course noticed how they hadn’t been able to keep eye contact, knew there was something coming, and for once Betsy wished he had an ounce of backbone so they didn’t have to muster up the will to explain all on their own.

But explain they did, eventually, beginning from the first debt collected all the way to pods, peanuts, and curses. And Mike sipped his soda through it all, and when it was over his face was placid.

“Fuck, dude.” And to punctuate it he set his empty cup on the table with a dull thunk.

“You like, okay?”

Mike sighed. “Haha, yeah. Just, uh. A lot to take in.”

He fell silent and Betsy nudged their untouched basket of fries over in front of him. He started eating absentmindedly.

Not too many people in the diner this many hours past midnight. But not abandoned. Betsy glanced around to see if anyone had noticed them, they weren’t that much of a celebrity on their own so they weren’t used to it but with Mike here they figured the chances of someone recognizing the pair of them were drastically higher. From a quick glance, if anyone had recognized them they weren’t showing it. Betsy was surprised by how much they wanted to hide Mike away from the world right then, and they wondered if they hadn’t brought Mike here in the first place just to keep him away from the other Garages as long as possible. They couldn’t tell if it was to protect him or just to keep him for themself. Betsy squirmed in their seat, their feeling of guilt growing more acute.

They checked their phone. Still on airplane mode from when they’d dipped out of the party. And Mike’s was out of charge, he’d mentioned as much in the car when he’d tried and failed to find a working outlet. Betsy slipped their phone back into their pocket before they could be tempted to turn on their data. And with that turmoil occupying their focus their mouth was freed up to say whatever it wanted.

“What was it like.”

Mike paused, then ate the other half of the fry in his hand. Betsy grabbed their lighter out of their pocket and began flicking it open and shut.

“Y’know, like. When you uh. Got her ou-”

“I know what you meant, Betsy.”

“Right.”

Mike considered eating another fry and then didn’t. And then told, haltingly, a story of being taken to an intermediary space, connecting life and death, and finding Jaylen there and guiding her back and not being permitted to return. Of staying trapped, at least for a while. It sounded lonely. And sad.

And most importantly: nothing like what Betsy saw.

Maybe they’d just seen different things. Maybe Mike was lying, wanted to make it seem kinder than it was, they wouldn’t put it past him.

Betsy didn't know. And they were used to not knowing. They just weren't used to it hurting.

They’d been looking for an opportunity to tell him that they’d been there, that they’d seen… whatever it was they saw when Jaylen had returned. But now it just seemed cruel.

“We should get headed back,” said Mike.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Betsy nodded slowly.

As they finished paying they turned to see Mike gazing into his reflection in the window turned mirror by darkness. They wondered what he was hoping to see.

All they knew was that they didn't need to ask Mike what the shadows had been like. Everything they needed to know they could read in his expression.

*******

When they were back, Betsy let the car idle as they opened their phone back up to receiving notifications, holding it at arms’ length like a snake handler. Sure enough, they started rolling in:

_Olly Mueller: heyyyyyyyyy betsy just wanted to see where you were at, we’re al…_

_Ted Duende: Betsy, are you still at the party? We’re trying to gather everyone, s…_

_Paula Turnip: betsy. if you are safe, get in contact._

Somehow worse than they’d imagined. Betsy sighed.

“You sure you wanna do this?” they asked. “Say the word and I’ll gun this car right out of here, Mikey. We’ll never look back. Be fuckin drifters and shit. Doesn’t that sound cool?”

“Cool as hell. Think I’d probably better go in and uh. You know.”

“Face the music?”

“Is that a pun, Betsy?” Mike cracked a grin.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Sure, yeah. Face the music, face the band. Face my team. Can’t really run from it.”

“Why not?” and Betsy surprised themself with the abruptness they said it with. Didn’t seem to phase Mike, though, who brushed it off with an easy shrug.

“I’m just not that kinda person I guess.”

“Yeah. Guess I knew that. Hey, wait, you said team. Do you think you’re like, still on the Garages?”

“Uh, yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Betsy had no time to will the flush away from their face. They could only hope that their skin tone, plus the car’s poor lighting, would be enough to hide it. “Well. That means we’re teammates, doesn’t it?”

“You just put it together?”

“Shut up, asshole, it’s been a big night for me!”

“And it hasn’t for me?”

“Yeah, well also I’m stupid! So there!”

“Damn. Showed me.”

“You’re goddamn right, Michael.”

They were both grinning in the car and Mike was resting his arm on the console to look at them and no matter how many different welcome and unwelcome feelings it brought up in them, Betsy was swallowed whole by the impression that not a single second had passed in the past three years, that the perfect past they’d held strong always one level back in their mind had been waiting for them this whole time, just like they’d hoped.

“I’ll go in first,” he said. “You can slip in after a bit, text and say you passed out or something.”

“You don’t want me with?”

“Seems like everyone’s stressed out, right? Probably better if they think I was just stumbling around in a stupor rather than being taken out on a fast food joyride.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It was a good joyride though, right?”

“The best.”

“Sick.” Betsy bit the inside of their lip. “You’ll be okay?”

“Promise.”

“Aight, then get the fuck out of here, you’ve got a fuckin grand entrance to make, dude.”

Mike laughed. “On my way.”

The car door opened and Betsy’s throat lurched as if it were trying to keep them from saying what they were about to. A reflex after all this time they hadn’t worked from their system.

“Hey Mike?”

“Yeah Bets?”

“Looking forward to. Well, if it works out like that. To pitching with you, or something. I just mean it’d be nice. Or will be nice. Or, I would’ve thought it would’ve been nice. Not that it was ever anything I was-”

“Betsy. Betsy it’s okay. I get it.”

“Oh thank fuck you stopped me dude I thought I was gonna be going on like that all night.”

“Don’t worry about it. And uh, same to you. Every word.”

And with a faint smile, Mike was gone, footsteps resounding against the high square ceiling. They continued to hear him long after he was out of sight. Betsy slumped back in their seat, only then feeling their utter exhaustion. They’d have to get moving in a second. Not just yet, though. In the meantime they skipped through their tape until they got to the noisiest, messiest song they could, and cranked the volume up until its dischordant blasts were all that existed.

* * *

_“but the dreams of others you helped kill_

_you justify, will linger on_

_don’t you know that dreams all die the day you’re born?”_

_“born to die”, choking victim_

* * *

“So are you the guy with the sword?”

“Yeah.”

“The one doin flips?”

“The same.”

“Pretty cool.”

“Yeah they really went crazy with video games while I was gone, this is great.”

They’d hooked up Mike’s PC to the common room flatscreen, they’d found it in storage somewhere and decided to set up here while furniture was being moved back into Mike’s old place. He sat on the floor leaning back against the couch Betsy was laying on, alternating attention between the phone held out above their head and the action on the screen, which tended to mostly be unparsable gibberish to them, menus that made their head spin and button prompts too fast to follow. But they did their best.

“Okay, Mikey, you’ve been circling this guy for like two minutes now just fuckin hit him with your sword or something.”

“Nah, it’s not that kind of game.”

“There’s _kinds_ of games? Thought it was all just. Video game.”

“You really don’t know anything about them, do you.”

“Not even I could pretend to be this stupid.”

“Never played Pac-Man?”

“Nope.”

“Mario?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s in a video game too?”

Mike turned away from the screen to roll his eyes at Betsy, the exact moment at which the monster on the screen lunged forward, eviscerating his character immediately.

Betsy snickered and returned to their phone. “Eye on the ball, Mikey.”

“Fuck off,” groaned Mike.

“Big deal, you’ll come back to life or whatever, it’s a video game.”

“You don’t get it, Betsy. Death _means_ something in this game. I could lose everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could lose my gamer cred.”

“Oh nooooo. How would you ever recover.”

“I wouldn’t. I would be a ruined shell of a man.”

“Okay so what the hell is with this game why can you just fuckin swing everywhere.”

“It’s a grappling hook and yeah, it’s pretty broken. Looks sick though.”

“Looks sick as hell.”

“For sure,” came a third voice from overtop the couch. Betsy jolted and dropped their phone directly onto their face.

“Fuckin shit,” they muttered, rubbing at their forehead. They put their phone away and sat up, turning around to see Oliver Mueller smiling down at them. “Fuck do you want, Olly?”

“Bets, you got a sec?” Lifting his gaze. “What’s up, Mike. Good to have ya back.”

“Hey, Ol.” Mike didn’t look away from the screen.

Betsy glanced down at Mike then flung their legs off of the couch to follow Olly. They moved down the hall a distance somewhere in between “just out of earshot” and “giving you space”. They felt themself start to slouch, shrinking under the directness of a one on one interaction. They hoped leaning against the wall would make it look more natural.

“So, I uh. Assume you heard the news?” It was, of course, a dumb question. By the day after elections the surrounding events had been collated and disseminated and clogging the airwaves for long enough that just about anyone would have at least a broad picture of what had gone down, even ones without a direct stake in it.

The rundown: Ortiz Morse went to the shadows to replace Mike. The other two new additions, who Betsy vaguely realized they hadn’t seen yet, had been replaced in the shadows by Lori. And Nolanestophia, with interruptions.

“Just figured I’d check in after Soph… you know. Given you two were friends and all.”

Betsy tried to construct a response that would end this interaction as soon as possible.

They shrugged. “It happens.”

Olly’s normally half-closed eyes narrowed even further. “Betsy, _what?”_

Well. Bit of a miscalculation. “We weren’t that close or anything.”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, considering what to say next in a way that made Betsy feel like their temper was being tread around carefully. Which, of course, pissed them off more.

“Just seemed that way,” he shrugged, after a moment. “It’s cool if I was wrong, it’s just-”

“Yeah? What?”

“Hey, c’mon Bets, I’m just trying to. You know.”

“What, make sure I’m appropriately fucking distraught about it? I’m not enough of a wreck for you?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fucking awesome. I’m fucking elated, or I was until you dragged me out to start throwing your dumbass shit at me. Now I’m just pissed at you for wasting my fucking time.”

“I can see that.” A pause, during which Betsy looked resolutely the other way down the hallway. “Well, if you’re good, that’s good! No worries then. See ya around.” He departed with an easy smile and only once he was gone did Betsy release their breath.

“Fuck,” muttered to themself. What were they, fucking stupid? Losing control like that was just a surefire way to make everyone think they weren’t okay, even Olly could figure that one out. They rolled their head to one side, then the other. Maybe they actually were upset, if they couldn’t keep it under wraps for more than a second. Or maybe they just felt like they should be upset. They couldn’t tell.

They wondered if Soph’s replacement had fallen from the sky too, like they did, and like Mike did, or if they’d just appeared in the same spot as the catgirl. They wondered if her replacement had someone waiting for them on this side, like people had waited for Mike. Probably not. But then again, Betsy still wasn’t really sure how the shadows worked.

Betsy realized why they had no idea what the two replacements were like at the exact same moment they sat back down on the couch: they’d been avoiding them, any picture any mention any chance of seeing them. As much of a coward as ever, for whatever little it mattered. They’d see them when the season started. If they lasted that long. Nothing lasted forever, especially in Blaseball, and Betsy couldn’t help but be exasperated with the hopeful part of themself that still hadn’t quite taken the hint after this long.

They watched the back of Mike’s head as he spoke over his shoulder. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“What was uh. That about?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” The first ‘y’ sound drawn out.

Mike shrugged and parried an attack with expert timing as a gory kill sequence played out on the screen. Betsy felt motion sick.

*******

Jaylen showed up at some point. Betsy caught her leaving.

During season nine and the start of the offseason Jaylen’s arrival would’ve been an event, would’ve prompted some response, someone would’ve known it was happening, but by this point she’d drifted far away enough from everyone’s radar that she could, apparently, show up undetected.

Mike was with her, there in the sidewalk leading to the stadium. Their conversation died as Betsy approached, Mike offering a timid half-wave. Betsy offered nothing in return. Looked up at Jaylen, who looked back with nothing of the fire that had once been in her eyes. Barely any recognition as she quickly turned back to Mike, and muttered something before departing. She walked away stiffly, like she was balancing something on her head, and Betsy realized she was no longer worthy of Jaylen’s notice. Which, they supposed, should be a good thing.

“What did she want?”

Mike smiled thinly. “Just saying hi.”

Betsy didn’t push it. They walked into practice together.

* * *

_“somewhere deep inside my body_

_has to be the answer to everything,_

_somewhere deep inside my body_

_has to be the reason for why i’m like this…”_

_“black crow”, girls rituals_

* * *

For the last few days before the start of season ten, a few of Betsy’s crows were with them everywhere they went. Which included ducking out of practice one unusually sunny Seattle day with Mike to go grab smoothies.

“This one’s Betsy Jr.” they said, looking upwards at the crow nesting peacefully on their head. “This here’s Lil’ Bets,” raising their shoulder to indicate the one perched there. “And the one hopping along behind us is Bootsy.”

“So are they all. Betsy themed names?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They’re my crow friends after all.”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

“Dick.” Betsy socked him in the arm maybe a little harder than he deserved.

“Ow, hey, fuck. And this is a league-wide thing?”

Betsy nodded. “One on each team. We have a group chat.”

“No shit.”

“You think any of us know how to take care of birds? We’re figuring that shit out together.”

“Like, how to brush them and stuff?”

“Yeah, yeah, and like, what sorta shit they eat.”

“Huh. What _do_ crows eat?”

“I think french fries, mostly. At least mine do.”

“Whaddya know.” Mike squinted against the sun as he noisily sipped his smoothie.

“You good, dude? We can always pop in somewhere and get you some fuckin sunglasses.”

“Nah, it’s. It’s not like it bothers me or anything, I sorta just forgot what it was like. Being in sun, I mean.”

“Oh.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“I mean, it _can_ be. Like, fuck, if you wanna complain I feel like you’ve earned it.”

“Maybe. I dunno it just. Sorta makes my skin feel weird.”

“Should we head back?”

“Wanna just come to my apartment? It’s closer.”

“Skip the rest of practice? Hell yeah dude, lead the fuckin way.”

They turned around in place, shoes squeaking against the asphalt, as they moved from the bright, open commercial street, slowly down into the dense shadier ones lined by apartments. Mike seemed relieved but still somehow distracted. They walked in silence for a while.

“So,” ventured Betsy. “All your shit’s back?”

“Most of it.”

“Cool.”

More silence.

“Your pitching’s looking good,” they said, for a lack of anything else to say.

“...Really?”

“Well, no. But whatever, who gives a shit about that.”

“Geez, I dunno Bets, the fans? The press? The gods?”

“You haven’t named a single person who matters.”

“Guess not.”

*******

It was a good first game, by any metrics. After giving up a homerun in the first inning, Betsy held the Steaks scoreless for the next eight to eke out a 3-2 win, with 16 strikeouts to boot.

But that couldn’t be further from Betsy’s mind at the end of the game.

The friends of crows group chat was _exploding._

A video: that horse from the Tacos, whinnying up at the inclement birds, calling them down like an avenging force against the opposing batter, sending him fleeing from the plate and forcing the umpires to call an out.

It was the sickest thing Betsy had ever seen.

Leaving them with exactly one thought in their head.

_I’ve GOTTA try that._

And sure enough, crows swarmed overhead during their next game, Seattle sun blocked for once by more than just cloud cover. They tried to make out if any in the cluster were theirs but even whatever affinity they’d gained couldn’t reach that far. Betsy retired batter after batter under black and seething sky.

In the fifth inning they received the sign they’d been waiting for when that first crow they’d pulled from the bush landed on their shoulder. Betsy smirked and stared the batter down.

“Fuck ‘em up.”

And the birds obliged, diving in the form of a black tendril that materialized faster than any pitch, ferrying Thomas Dracaena away from the plate with the threat of talon and tearing beak. No one had ever seen him move that fast.

Betsy laughed with glee and turned around to set up on the rubber for the next batter. Mixed reactions from the Garages infield, some were looking on with worry while others averted their eyes. Paula Turnip looked like she was fucking loving it, though, which was all the permission Betsy needed to revel conscience-free in the chaos.

They called on their birds to rain down hell one more time before game’s end, just for good measure, and for once they couldn’t even be mad at their team’s piss-poor run support for costing them the win.

* * *

_“all my insincts, they return_

_the grand façade so soon will burn…”_

_“in your eyes”, peter gabriel_

* * *

Back to back home series meant the time normally reserved for travelling was free. And after weeks of griping, Betsy had finally managed to strongarm everyone into having a movie night. As the credits rolled someone got up and switched on the lights, shocking everyone’s eyes closed for a moment and illuminating the mess of blankets and pillows strewn on the floor.

“Holy shit, Betsy are you crying??” asked Olly.

“N- no!” said Betsy, sniffling loudly as they recomposed themself, both hands clutched tightly around their cup of soda. “It’s just a good fuckin movie, that’s all.”

Most of the Garages were filing out, but some stayed scattered around the room.

“Gotta say it wasn’t what I expected you’d pick,” said Teddy Duende. “Figured it’d be something a little more… I dunno. Not a romcom.”

“You got a fuckin problem with romcoms, Ted?”

“Hey, not me.”

“Better fuckin not. This shit owns.”

“I don’t think I fully got it,” said Paula.

“Oh uh, what’s up, Turnip, need anything explained?”

“The letters, to her father. A big point was made about there being two of them, but Quack was eating potato chips very loudly next to me during that portion.”

“Quack,” offered Quack in apology.

“So like. She’s sending a letter to her dad before she leaves, but she can’t just _talk_ to him, right? So she sends the guy in with a letter and he’s like ‘Hey, Her Dad, she wrote two fuckin letters for ya, one’s the happy I-Still-Love-You letter, and the other one’s the Fuck-Off-Actually letter’ and they open it and it’s the fuck off letter but the guy’s like, ‘Okay but like, she still wrote the I love you letter! That’s gotta count for something, right, that she was even able to write it??’ And then they both fuck off to London or wherever. Uh, that’s basically it.”

Silence for a moment.

“Hey Betsy? Do you take constructive criticism on your explanations?”

“I absolutely do fucking not, Michael, but thank you for offering.”

“But the only letter delivered is the fuck off letter,” said Paula. “Why would he be happy about that?”

“Well it’s like. If she can write both letters, that means she feels both things at once, both the love emotion and the fuck off emotion. Doesn’t matter what he sees, just that both exist. Both of em are real it’s like, like that cat. In the box, you know.”

“Don’t you mean Cat in the Hat?” said Mike.

“Oh shit you’re right, Mike, I was talking about Cat in the Hat, thanks a ton. You fucking dumbass.”

Mike grinned and chomped a Dorito.

“So is this like that other eighties movie?” asked Olly. “The one that had multiple endings depending on what theater you saw it in.”

“Nahhhh, I know what you’re talking about but it’s not like that. What ya see is what ya get.”

“So then,” continued Paula, “how then is it a kindness?”

“Well she didn’t have to tell her boyfriend anything right! She coulda just said ‘here’s the fuckin letter’ instead of making it a whole fuckin production. But she didn’t! She made sure that he knew so that her dad would know so that like. Even if she couldn’t show it to him he’d know it’s there. Cause like, if you don’t read the letter, you don’t know which, so it could be either? So just for a second he can think like, maybe this is that one? As long has he doesn’t open it he doesn’t know so he can imagine it’s the one that says she loves him. So I guess like. That’s the kindness in it, or whatever.”

And Betsy ran out of words to say and realized they had probably said more than they intended. They sat down quickly and hid behind sips of their drink as everyone filed out, happy to let that be the cap on the discussion.

Paula Turnip remained, their large form looming threatlessly, blending into the scenery despite her size, like a tree you miss for the forest. Which Betsy supposed was appropriate.

“You seem preoccupied, Betsy. Would you like to share your thoughts?”

“I do enough of that al-fucking-ready, don’t you think?”

“Since you asked, I think you do the exact opposite. You can be difficult to read, Betsy. Despite how freely you express _some_ of your emotions.”

Betsy bit down the response that came to them, not wanting to prove Paula’s point for her. Exasperated, they flung themself out across leftover blankets and pillows, staring up at the uncharacteristically low ceiling of this part of the Garage. Paula walked closer and it sounded like timelapse footage of an erosion event.

“Some would expect you to be elated.”

“Well whoever this _some_ is should mind their own fucking business.”

“You do not have to force me away, Betsy, I will leave on my own time.”

Betsy titled their head around to meet Paula’s gaze, upside down, and found it as unyielding as her skin. They rolled their eyes. Not worth it, probably.

“What do I have to be elated about, anyway.”

“You waited. For something that had no right to ever come, and yet it came anyway.”

“You think I give a shit about Mike?”

“Betsy you have been following him around since he’s returned.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I do not mean it as a criticism. It’s refreshing, actually. To see you admit with your actions if not your words that you care for someone.” Paula’s mouth creaked open into a wry smile.

“I care about plenty of people,” mumbled Betsy.

“Yes, I know. Many wouldn’t. It is something that usually has to be inferred.”

Betsy flipped over and pushed themself up to rest on their knees. “Look, do you have a point or do you just want to show off that you’ve got reads on me?”

A leaf drifted away off of Paula. “I’m just wondering if he knows.”

“Yeah,” said Betsy, after a moment. “Me too.”

“Have you told him?”

“I mean I said I missed him. Dunno what else I’m supposed to say.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to say anything. But surely there were things you wished to say to him before he left?”

“Honestly? Not really. Like. There’s a lot of stuff I wish he _knew_ but when I try to get it out of my mouth? I dunno. I don’t think about him in words.”

Paula nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“More than before.”

Betsy shrugged and pushed themself up, realizing only on using them again how ungainly their legs seemed after so long contorted. They made to leave and Paula’s words caught them before they turned the corner.

“You’re lucky, you know?”

Betsy stopped and shoved their hands into their pockets. “Bout what?”

“This game we play does not have a habit of returning things it takes.”

“Of course I know that. I’m one of the things it’s not gonna return.”

A micromovement from Paula’s wreaths. “Oh. Right. I always forget you’re an alternate.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t.”

And Betsy left.

*******

~~_hey dude its p fkn cool ur back rite?? like woah i mea_ ~~

~~_good watchin movies w/ u dude_ ~~

~~_yo wtf is teds deal li_ ~~

~~_hey do u wnna go grab lnch smtime_ ~~

~~_hey do u wnna grab cffee r w/e_ ~~

~~_stabstabstab lmao wats up_ ~~

~~_hey do u wnna go on like a real fncy da_ ~~

~~_yo mikey do y_ ~~

~~_mike do y_ ~~

~~_michaelllllll do ya wann_ ~~

~~_hey do u actlly want me arnd cause like if u dnt jst say so n ill_ ~~

~~_i lov_ ~~

~~_yoooooooooo mikey chck out ths fkn meme dude_ ~~

~~_hey is it weird tht im playin in th band tht srta knda kicked u out?_ ~~

~~_yo mike have u evn met soph shes p_ ~~

~~_yo mike have u evn met paula shes p cool we shld hang_ ~~

~~_hey do u wnna go bake sme bread n hang in th kitchn like we used to_ ~~

Line after line appeared on the screen of Betsy’s phone and line after line they were erased just as quickly. Not like Mike would even be up to see it at this point. Straight after the movie Betsy had dropped back into their room and chugged a Mlonster and had been up ever since, kept company only by the bland trashy TV parading across Betsy’s laptop screen.

If there was any place Betsy felt less comfortable with the sound of their own words it was over text. Didn’t help that they were possibly the worst typist in recorded history.

They sighed, typed _“yo good hangn out w/ u dude”,_ and sent it. And the words stayed on the screen, staring at them, and if Betsy had wanted to communicate anything meaningful it was painfully obvious how badly they’d failed at it. They tossed their phone across the room well before they could expect a response and passed out immediately.

* * *

_“if you take a step, i will make you sure that you take the next_

_if you tell a lie, i'll just nod my head, yeah i'll let it slide_

_cause you woke me up and there's birds outside and i still feel drunk_

_but i'm glad you did, cause last night you weren't making that much sense…”_

_“breakfast in bed”, dntel_

* * *

There were plenty of downsides to following a blaseball schedule, less if you were a pitcher and weren’t forced to play every game, no one cared too much if you dipped in the middle of the rotation, even a hands-on team like the Garages. But as Betsy leafed through their luggage in their room in a town whose name they couldn’t remember, tossing aside CDs, sketchpads, and binders and uniforms clean and dirty, they cursed an aspect of blaseball that fell on the pitcher and fielder alike, that once you set out on the road you never knew how long it would be until you get back. And sometimes you pack a tube of toothpaste that you’re _sure_ is going to last you through an away series, and a series after that, but then the series after that one turns out to be away too, and before long it’s been near a month since you’d seen home and you’ve been living out of a suitcase the whole time and the hotel’s detergent makes your skin feel way weird and you’re out in the streets of a town your phone is telling you is called Kansas City and your legs are tired cause you pitched for a win today and your mouth tastes weird from the partying afterwards and it’s another five minute walk to the drugstore and you’d _just_ like to get some toothpaste so you can head back and get to sleep and-

Betsy took a breath in through their nose and let it out their mouth. Skipped to the next song, then the next, just to do something with their finger, then pulled out their phone to scroll through analysis. Something mindless to do when what mind they had didn’t seem to be able to hold onto anything but the splort.

None of it was stuff they didn’t know: the Garages weren’t _out_ of the playoffs, but they were sure as hell a lot closer to out than in. They scrolled down through anything on their team they could find until they found a section on the pitching rotation. Betsy wasn’t vain but it was always safer to know where you stood, they’d found, and so they scanned for their name first. Not too much, a brief mention of how they were more than measuring up to their last season’s numbers, which was true, to their knowledge, although the birds helped with that. More discussion on Mike. Made sense. He was well known and bad, continually bad, as bad or worse now as he’d ever been, and critical shit like this always got more attention than praise did, it seemed like. Same for the new kid in the lineup between them, a one star pitcher who pitched like a one star pitcher.

And as they closed the article they realized they were relieved, relieved that the two pitchers directly in front of them were bad and they weren’t, that they weren’t the shitty pitcher anymore, and that there was something safe about that. They bit the inside of their lip and wondered if being safe would always mean throwing someone else under the bus.

The automatic doors opened and they walked into the too-bright store.

*******

“Yeah so they like _just_ missed it last time. It was a whole thing. But it looks like the Crabs are gonna make the playoffs pretty easy and Tot’s like, outwardly okay? But also you can’t see half hir face so I’m assuming ze’s _way_ worried about Luis leaving.”

“Uh huh.”

It was dark on the field, even with the overhead stadium lighting. The game had long since ended but Betsy hadn’t really felt like leaving and Mike didn’t have anywhere he needed to be and so the two of them had just drifted around aimlessly until they’d decided to pass the time pitching. They set up a screen behind home plate, neither trusting themselves enough to play catcher. Mike was up currently and Betsy was sitting off to the side of the mound, crosslegged and resting back on their hands, talking aimlessly about whatever came to their head, which at the moment was the team members’ various relationship statuses.

“You shoulda seen hir during that series ze was a fuckin WRECK. And then all night at the party afterwards ze was all over Luis, like, I thought xe was gonna suffocate or somethin.” They laughed. “If fuckin Tot Clark is allowed to be clingy? Maybe there’s hope for all of us.”

“Right.” A pitch, wide right.”

“God I hope the Crabs fucking lose, not JUST because I hate them, which I do, but cause I do _not_ wanna see what Tot’ll be like if ze loses hir partner like, Malik fills our entire mopeyness quota now that his catgirlfriend is gone, I do _not-”_

“You. You like it here, don’t you?” Mike interrupted. Which stopped Betsy flat because Mike very rarely interrupted anything.

“Uh. Like, on the field, or?”

“On the team. On the Garages. I just. It seems like you like it, and that surprised me.”

“I mean, I guess I do? I at least like it better than the fuckin Pies but like. That ain’t hard. There’s actually some cool people on this team.”

“Nobody on the Pies was cool?”

“Man, I don’t fuckin know, you know I didn’t want any of those fucks around me.” A pitch. Wide left. “I mean, I guess Soph turned out to be cool. Only really talked to her once we went from there to here. Course she’s not on _either_ team now but like-”

“So it was just being on the different team, then?”

Betsy leaned forward, worrying their hands in their lap. “Sure, I guess. I mean it’s easier too cause like. They didn’t know the old Betsy.”

“Didn’t think that bothered you.”

“Well,” shrugged Betsy, “sorry to disappoint.”

“Not like that, I just. You always act like you’re so unconcerned with her- the other one, I mean.”

“It’s not _her_ it’s just. The people looking at you like they wish you were different. Like. You’re not fuckin subtle I can tell! You know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“...Yeah.” Betsy tried to find something interesting in the sky to look at as the sound of pitches hitting canvas kept tempo but all they could seem to find were lines that led back to that spot over the field back in Philly.

“Well if all you needed was the change of scenery that’s good, then. I’m glad. I’m glad.”

Betsy squinted at Mike as he kept his eyes trained on the space over the plate. He was wearing those plastic sports glasses that were wrapped around the back with elastic and they looked _terrible_ on him. They’d tried a million times to get him to start wearing contacts like they did, but he’d never taken the advice. The glare off of them from the stadium lighting made it hard to see his eyes to read how he was feeling, which is exactly what Betsy was trying to do.

“Okay what the fuck dude, why are you saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Like, if you’re pissed that I’m getting along with the Garages just say so.”

“I’m not! Betsy, I’m not, I’m glad you’re happy. I just-”

Mike stopped. Threw a pitch. Stopped again. Betsy waited through all of it, determined that he’d be the next to speak.

After a bit he gave in. “I get out of the shadows and you’re there, right? On the roof, avoiding a party, and you drove me away and I thought ‘well hey, a bunch has probably changed, but at least Bets is still the same, right?’ Then it turns out I was wrong.”

Betsy’s brows narrowed. “Are you saying a foundational fucking part of your concept of me is the fact that I’m a fucking outcast no one likes??”

“Betsy you know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Okay then what the fuck are you saying??”

“You know. Those guys can be hard to get along with. I just figured-”

“Just because they hated you doesn’t mean they have to hate me too.”

A pitch in the dirt. Which was about where Betsy wished their head was buried right about now.

“Fuck, Mike, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nah. No, I mean. You’re right? Probably. I shouldn’t put all my baggage onto you.”

“Forget that shit dude, put whatever you want on me.” Something about him downplaying their fuckup made them all the angrier. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean it like it came out.”

“It’s okay, Betsy.”

“No the fuck it’s not!” Betsy threw themself backwards, arms outstretched laying on the infield grass. “I hated them for a long time, you know? I bitched at Ted, I threatened to stab people, I dipped after games, all my usual shit. But they didn’t just write me off they… And I. I didn’t think you’d ever be coming back so… I dunno. It was lonely and I didn’t have anyone for a while and. I like feeling like I’m on a team, I think.”

“Yeah.” Mike hesitated for a moment before tossing his glove aside and sitting down on the mound, facing them. “Sorry I couldn’t. You know. Be there, or anything.”

“Not your fuckin fault.”

“Sure, but. Wish I could’ve helped you through it anyway.”

“I never needed your help, Mike. Just liked hanging out with you is all.”

“I liked hanging out with you too.”

“Are you sure? Cause like, if I was just some charity case you stuck with out of pity like you can say so and-”

“No. Betsy. I mean it.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Betsy poked their head up, then shifted their way over to be something that could be called next to Mike. He smiled. He’d taken off the glasses at some point and in the harsh light he looked more tired than anything else.

“So. They really kept at you long enough to break down the _famed_ emotional barriers of one Betsy Trombone?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself Mikey, these barriers are still plenty fuckin strong.” They both laughed, Betsy first, Mike following. A plane passed by overhead, its noise thin. “Maybe that’s proof that they’re different from when you were here before, that they kept at it for so long. I dunno, who fuckin knows.”

“Wonder if it’s different enough.”

“For you?”

“Yeah.”

Betsy paused, some sentence starting with a _listen_ about to make its way out of their mouth, when the sprinkler systems came on, starting in the outfield first so they had just enough time to realize what was about to happen when they soaked the infield too, sending the two of them fleeing, leaving Betsy’s sentence unspoken. As they ran away they wondered what they would’ve ended up saying.

* * *

_“who said it’s forever?_

_you’ve gotta set your mind free_

_i don’t have time for this weather_

_i let it pour over me…”_

_“omaha”, toro y moi_

* * *

Every once in a while as Betsy moved through the halls of the Big Garage they would suddenly become aware that the door they’d just passed led to the room that housed the resurrection. There was no way, really, to tell if that feeling was true, no one was really sure if the Garage shuffled its rooms intermittently or was just intensely confusing to navigate, but either way there was really no way to determine for sure if it actually was the same room.

Didn’t stop them from opening the door each time the feeling hit them. They never knew what they were expecting to find, and the things they did never amounted to much. No forensics left behind, no sense of overbearing dread. Just a room. Like it was wiped clean, hosed from the walls here in a way it never could be from the league. Or from the part of Betsy’s mind that held their moments of loss forever captured in amber.

They considered going in, standing in the spot they could remember him standing, trying to imagine what was going through his mind in that moment. But they were late for band practice, so they closed the door carefully and continued on their way. You’d only notice their pace quickening if you were watching for it.

*******

The drum line on the song they were practicing was just a standard rock beat and when Betsy zoned fully out they found themself back in yesterday afternoon, plopping down on Mike’s couch with a soda. When they’d asked he hadn’t really seemed to care, or take much notice, so they figured it was fine. They’d popped the top and brought their knees to their chest. A couple of sips and silence and the sound of video game violence.

_“Yo, Mike, you wanna go grab some food?”_

_“Nah. ...If you go, would you bring something back?”_

_“Wanna just take a walk or something?”_

_“Betsy I’m kinda. Doing this. So.”_

_“Yeah but. …”_

_“...”_

_“I dunno. You haven’t really been around.”_

_“My bad.”_

_“Have you left the house since you pitched the other day?”_

_“...”_

_“Have you done anything but play games?”_

_“There’s a lot to catch up on.”_

_“Yeah. There sure is.”_

At some point they’d gotten to the end of the song. Betsy only noticed because the sticks had stopped sending their muted vibrations through their palms. Ted was saying something to Paula about the violin line in the song. And Betsy tried very hard not to look at Mike.

The end of the season was coming soon which meant preparing for another tour. If it were up to Betsy it absolutely would not be called the “Mike Townsend Comeback Tour” but it wasn’t up to them and so that was the name. Mike had been called to rehearsal to hear the demos of the songs. At some point during the season Betsy had given him the update on the status of the band proper, mentioning with no lack of pride their being the drummer. Mike’s eyes had shifted away when they did and Betsy had seen that reaction too many times not to know what it meant: Mike had known the person they’d replaced.

“All right! Let’s try the new one.” Ted turned around to look at each of the members in turn.

“Does that shit even have lyrics?” asked Betsy.

“Sure does! Count us in, Bets.”

“Don’t fuckin call me that, Ted.”

Four perfectly timed clicks. Then the song.

And with dawning horror Betsy realized it was another Mike Townsend parentheses song.

Intended as an apology, probably, but one without remorse. It was aggrandizing, lionizing, complimentary of person and pitching, facts which everyone in the room knew were fabricated.

Parts written for Mike, finally, instead of around him, vocals and guitar. They even threw in a solo for him.

He walked out of the room before it was over.

“Mike!” Betsy dropped their drumsticks with a clatter in the middle of the song, cursing their kit’s setup for getting in their way. By the time they’d extricated themself Mike was already out the door. They sprinted to catch up but there was something else in their way this time and it was Paula.

“Don’t go after him, Betsy.” Cutting through their spluttering. “He wants to be alone.”

Betsy felt themself deflate but didn’t press anything. Practice broke up pretty quickly after that, everyone going their separate ways. They stuck with Paula, not asking where she was going, just needing to feel like they were on their way somewhere, anywhere.

Anywhere turned out to just be Paula’s room, which Betsy had seen before from just the outside. Much different being in it, with the door closed, being surrounded by pots and soil and growing things. Two pennants hanging on the wall, a team photo and a tacked-up scrap of fabric that might have been part of a jacket’s hem. It felt lived in and interacted with in a way that made Betsy suddenly and acutely aware of the ways in which their own room wasn’t.

Paula fiddled with the blinds against the early autumn sunset and something about it made Betsy realize they were finally sick to death of perpetually saying either too little or too much.

“I feel like a traitor.”

Paula regarded them briefly. “You didn’t know what it would be. I’m sure Theodore thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“Nah, not just for that.” Betsy leaned against a shelf, crossing their arms on top and resting their chin. “For ending up on this team. For liking it a little. Shoulda just stayed miserable.”

“And how would that help anything?”

“Cause if I stop being fucked up over him leaving it’s like… At least me being sad over it was something he left behind. And if I lose that it’s like he wasn’t ever here, like I never cared. At least this way it’s proof that he was around, you know?”

“Yes,” said Paula, turning slowly away from the window. The way light diffracted through smoke was instantly recognizable to Betsy who for the first time noticed that evidence of something dimly smoldering on Paula’s back. When Paula turned around she was holding a potted plant, watching it delicately, looking for signs of something Betsy couldn’t fathom. “Do you think Mike would want that to be his legacy?”

Betsy flinched and played it off as a shrug. “Wouldn’t be the most fucked up thing he left behind.”

“You’re correct. But there is no reason yours has to be a tragedy. Even were he not back.”

“Yeah, for whatever that’s worth,” muttered Betsy.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ugh. I dunno, he’s like. Distant. Like there’s always something else going on, I mean he was always kinda like that but. Now it’s like he looks at me like he’s trying to decide if he can tell me things and the answer’s always no. Like I lost whatever thing it was that let him say stuff like that to me and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back. I just wanna be someone who can support him, I just…”

And as they searched for the words Paula placed the plant she was holding down with the gentle hollow sound of ceramic. She swayed and rustled in wind that wasn’t there.

“I just wish I could stop missing him. But even though he’s back I still do.”

Betsy dropped their eyes behind their arms and wrapped themself up tight, worried suddenly that if the light touched them it would melt them away entirely.

* * *

_“so tell me: was it worth it?_

_answer before i get in my van_

_to drive into the pacific_

_where i’ll probably never see your face again…”_

_“future 86”, bomb the music industry!_

* * *

When you miss the playoffs, there’s nothing left to do but watch. Which is exactly what Betsy and the rest of the team were doing on the second occasion of Jaylen’s death.

Ever since players had started to get shelled, watching the idol board at the end of the regular season had become as much a mainstay as waiting for election results. And this season they arrived without fanfare. It took the gathered Garages a second to notice, distracted first by which of their friends could eat fire now, or devour blood. And then someone noticed the shoe logo next to the name Henderson. And the lack of one next to Jaylen.

And when they flipped the screen to check the hall there her name was which could of course only mean-

Betsy whipped their head around to see if Mike was still watching with everyone else but he was already no longer there. They swore under their breath and took off running.

*******

Mike had made it near to the I-5 Express when Betsy caught him. Far enough away that the sound of cars whipping by was a backdrop and not a buffeting of air. Mike and Betsy stared each other down for a long moment and a car exited onto the sidestreet they were standing along, whipping noise and a chill by both of them. Betsy huddled inside their jacket.

They expected to be yelling but their words came out even in a way Betsy could never remember them having been before. “So you’re leaving.”

“I gotta. I have to get to Charleston.”

“You don’t, though.”

“I’ve gotta see for myself, maybe she’s not dead, I don’t know. And if she is-”

“What, you’ll throw everything away for her? Again?”

“It’s not gonna be like that, Betsy, I just have to make sure she’s okay.”

“That’s all you ever try to do!” And there was the yelling Betsy had been expecting from themself, it just took a little bit to get here, “All you ever try to do is make sure other people are okay and it’s killing you! It already did kill you.” Mike didn’t say anything back and Betsy couldn’t keep from filling the silence. “I don’t wanna lose you again, Mike, I really don’t.”

“I’m going to be fine, Betsy. I promise. I’ll go and I’ll come back and next season everything will be okay.”

Betsy shook their head. Another car came past, taking the turn far too fast. “Sometimes I wonder if I even _can_ lose you anymore. Sometimes it feels like you never came back in the first place, like you’re not the same one that went in.” _You and her both, I guess._

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Betsy what are you talking about? It’s me, I’m Mike. Same as always.”

Betsy shrugged. “Yeah. Probably.” _But then, whose body is that?_ They didn’t dare say it out loud.

The figure across from them stood uncomfortably for a moment and then mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said. I’m not really yours to lose, Betsy. If you don’t want me to go that’s fine but it’s not going to stop me.”

Betsy forced themself to make eye contact but they couldn’t figure out what the expression on Mike’s face meant.

“Do you. Really mean that?”

“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry to hurt you but. It’s what I have to do.”

“Don’t _fucking_ pull that you’ve got no choice bullshit on me, Mike! Don’t say the same shit you said the last time you fucking-” and their voice broke. Choked on something they were realizing was tears. “Did you know it was gonna hurt then too?”

“When?”

“In the kitchen. Before you left. When I- Don’t you remember? Before you left, I… my dumb ass even had a fucking pie for you.” Spoken into their chest: “I was gonna tell you I loved you.” Raising their head, screaming through tears: “I was gonna tell you I loved you! You fucking bastard! I was gonna tell you I loved you and I was gonna fucking _mean it_ and before I even could you threw your whole life away for hers and now you’re gonna do it again-”

“Well how was I supposed to know that??” cut in Mike, “I had no idea you felt th-”

“Yes you did!! Yes you did how could you fucking not you fucking _kissed_ me and then acted like it was nothing. Was it just inconvenient for your fucking self-sacrifice routine??” They could feel themself doing it again, feel sentences and phrases coming unbidden to their head, based not in fact but their ability to hurt, and they knew they could tell Mike that he was only helping people to help his damaged ego, accuse him of throwing them away once they didn’t need help, tell him that they and Jaylen and everyone else resented him for his help, blame him for everything they’d been through-

They didn’t believe any of it. But there was a part of Betsy, had been for a while, that made their words come out spiteful, whose ethos was to hurt before you were hurt. Betsy felt it in their head and pleaded silently just this once for the strength to keep it held inside. They closed their eyes and waited quietly. They tamped down their anger. Gradually, the words faded.

And for a second they lost themself completely inside sobs, and they felt pathetic and helpless and small and for once they couldn’t bring themself to care, couldn’t bring themself to maintain the walls and the persona they’d fine-tuned through the years. They couldn’t bring themself to do anything but cry, like finally mourning in some small way what they’d lost could do anything to bridge the years-long gap which had grown uncrossable long ago.

There was an arm around their shoulder. Of course there was. Betsy knew Mike too well to expect otherwise. Now that they were admitting things, hadn’t that been what first made them feel the way they did? The way he would throw everything aside to help someone who needed it? But no, Betsy realized, it wasn’t that, it wasn’t out of gratitude. They just wanted to be someone he’d let helped him. They wanted to matter to him like he did to them. Betsy cried at the ground and then cried into Mike’s chest and they felt selfish and purified.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know. Maybe I should have, I dunno. Or maybe I did.”

Betsy shrugged. “It’s okay. I barely know what I felt for you anymore anyway. Which is weird because normally I’m way smart and I know everything.” They smirked. “So thanks for making me fucking stupid, Michael Townsend.” And they smiled and Mike laughed for a moment.

Mike let them go and Betsy floated a few steps away. He rubbed the back of his head. “We probably should’ve had like, a single conversation about it ever, huh.”

“Not your fault. I never fucking talk about shit like that.”

“Wow, really? That’s news to me.” Mike’s sarcasm was as gentle as always.

“Shut up, asshole.” Betsy played with the hem of their flannel. “Think I’m always just worried like, if I give people the chance they’ll use it to tell me to fuck off, or they’ll just leave, so I figure like. Better not to give them the chance. Guess that doesn’t really matter now, though.”

“Guess not.” Mike started to say something, then stopped, then started again. “Look, Betsy, I-”

“If you’re gonna tell me how you feel, save it. Don’t think I could handle you telling me you just felt sorry for me right now.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Just. Save it, okay? Tell me when you get back.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” A car passing, and then another, and then silence in the aftermath that was only slowly refilled by the sound of crickets. No stars overhead, not in a city like this.

“What do you think you’re gonna find when you get there?” they asked.

Mike turned at their voice. He’d been looking at the sky too. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what are you hoping’s gonna be there for you? Cause it’s not gonna be her. So what, then. Just some other fucking loser for you to save?”

He shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

“Guess so.”

And Mike walked away. Before long, he was swallowed by the shadows, maybe the same shadows that had taken him before, and Betsy wondered vaguely what he’d been going to say. They’d hear it when he came back, but he was never coming back, and Betsy wondered if that was the point, if they’d wanted it to stay that way. They were a coward, after all. And maybe that was why they were letting him leave, or maybe it was because they loved him, or maybe it was because they hated him. They turned to head back and wondered what they would tell everyone when they got back.

The truth, probably.

* * *

_“i’m still here, i’m almost floored_

_poorly drawn, hope you’re bored_

_sinking feeling, weather day_

_i’ll be here. hope you stay”_

_“come in”, weatherday_

* * *

Betsy sat leaned against the door of their room, listening to the muffled sounds of a guitar solo. The notes were doubled. They were teaching Mike’s replacement to play a dual-necked guitar.

One of the bulbs in their room’s single light fixture had gone out and in the dusk it was unbearably dark in the room. They were twirling their knife aimlessly around in their hand. It was a week, maybe two now since Mike had been sent back to the shadows. They were alone when it happened. They’d stared at their phone for a long moment, trying to put a finger on what they felt when they realized it wasn’t much. Really, they’d expected it to happen, knew it was coming bonedeep so that when it happened it wasn’t much of a surprise. Just felt like the world catching up.

A new season soon. They’d step up and pitch and rest in between. And until then? Probably more of what they were doing. As much of it as they could take until their brain turned to mush. They closed their eyes hard, like they were bracing themself, and threw their closed switchblade hard at the wall.

When they opened their eyes Mike was there, standing in the room. It was much darker than it was before. Betsy stared at him for a bit, blinking. Each time they opened their eyes he was a bit different. Each time a new part of him seemed indistinct, fading into the shadows of the room.

“M- Mike?”

“yeah. it’s me.”

“But you’re.”

“in the shadows? what, is it not dark enough in here?”

“I’m being serious you fucking dick!”

“haha, sorry. um, long story short. the league’s under new management, so i can sorta. manifest myself? i dunno, if you wanna know more about it there’s another fic you can read-”

“What the literal fuck are you talking about, dude.”

“oh, sorry. basically, the shadows work different now? that work for you?”

“Pardon me if it’s a lot to fuckin take in.”

“nah, no worries.”

Betsy kept blinking and Mike kept staying. No chance of getting out of the situation that easily. What the fuck were they supposed to say? And then they remembered another time they’d asked the same thing.

“I really thought it’d be for good this time. I never thought I’d see you again.” Mike’s face grew indistinct. “I’m. Glad you’re here. As much as you can be, at least. I was about ready to go on missing you forever.”

“well. here i am.” He smiled, and Betsy realized it was the first time they’d seen him smile this fully since before the first time he’d left.

“How’s uh,” they said, suddenly uncomfortable with the subject at hand, “how’s Jaylen? And the others? I bet they flipped when they saw you like this.”

“dunno. haven’t seen them yet.”

“Wait, what?”

“you’re the first person i came back to.”

Betsy flicked their eyes down to the floor, then back up. “...Why?”

“maybe symmetry? you found me first last time. uh. that was a joke. mostly cause i felt bad, i think? about how i left things.”

“You didn’t leave things any kind of way, dude, you’re fine.”

“betsy after the number of times you’ve told me not to say things were fine when they weren’t, i am definitely not letting you get away with that.”

“Ugh. Whatever.”

“i just. you said you were afraid of people leaving if you let them. and then you let me and i did just that and. when i was flying to charleston all i was worried about was whether you thought that there was something wrong with you that made people leave.”

“I mean. You sorta pick up on the pattern after a little bit.”

“well let’s start a new pattern then. one where i always come back.”

“...Yeah. That’d be nice. Thanks, Mikey.”

“of course, bets. i’ll stick around as long as you want. i like you, you know. maybe i have problems talking about myself too but. i never forced myself to hang out with you.”

And Betsy looked at Mike and saw everything they’d missed for years and everything that was their lifeline after they’d fallen from the sky and everything that made them feel whole and.

And none of that stuff mattered. They had their lifelines, they had their whole, they had their team and their friends and their music and their sketches and their baking and none of that went away when Mike did.

They’d just missed hanging out with him. Because they liked doing it, and they liked him, and because he liked doing it and he liked them.

And Betsy realized that all the years they thought they’d lost Mike, they hadn’t lost anything. They had and would always have him, on some level deeper than physical.

And for the first time in their life Betsy Trombone realized it was okay to let go.

“Nah, it’s cool. You should go let everyone know you’re okay.”

“you sure? cause i meant what i said, i’ll be here as long as you need-”

“Seriously. It’s cool. You got other people to worry about. Means a lot you thought about me, though. Really.”

“always. uh, i’ll see you around then?”

“Course you will. We’re making a new pattern, remember?”

“course. well, anyway, i’ll ta-”

And before he could finish the statement Mike Townsend was gone from existence. Betsy smiled. They pushed themself up from the ground.

“See ya, Mikey,” they said to the empty air.

In response, the air produced a sound against their door, and then a skittering. When they opened the door one of their crows hopped in, looking around quizzically. It was Betsie-with-an-’ie’, you could tell it was him because he had the longest tuft of feathers right on the back of his neck out of all their birds. Duh.

Betsy grinned and lowered their hand down. Betsie, the bird, obliged and dutifully hopped up onto their shoulder. The open door was in front of Betsy and for once they felt like going somewhere. They wondered if the new players were around, for the first time feeling a bit bad they hadn’t met them.

Someone had mentioned that the newest one had like twenty arms, which sounded dope as hell. One of the other ones was apparently the little sister of some people who used to be famous. Betsy didn’t really know them but it seemed nice to have another kid sibling like them on the team. Oh yeah, and the other one had lightning powers. _God, finally I’m on a cool fucking team. This owns._ The bird jumped ahead, into the doorway, and Betsy pulled a flannel on, then their jacket, and set out to find whoever they could.

When Betsy left their room they left the knife behind.

  
  


**end**


End file.
